Yesterday was my dad's birthday. He would have been 70, but, like my mother, he only reached the age of 66. They died less than a year apart, and though the wound still bleeds, it has gotten better. It really has. What was once a gnawing sadness is now just a long sigh.
A photograph of my parents graces this desk, this center of my apartment where I spend much of my time and do all of my work. It was taken at my grandparents' old beach house on Hood Canal, back home in Washinton State. My old man is sitting down, with his hands in his lap. He wears a black and blue polo shirt and shaded glasses. The sky is is a mixture of blues and greys, early summer Northwest clouds, obscuring the Olympic mountains in the background. His natural grin stretches ear to ear; he is relaxed, vibrant, and absolutely happy. This comes as no surprise because he was alway happy at the Canal. It was a case of geography in the blood; the saltwater from that inlet coursed through his veins, and trace amounts of his ashes are suspended in its depths. My mother stands behind him ("Stand by your maaaaaan"), hands on his shoulders, wearing a red Nike jacket over a red and white country style shirt. Her hair is as grey as his and she smiles uneasily, reflecting a lifetime wariness of the camera. If my dad was the big ham, my mother was always more content to do her work from the wings. I've always thought I took after my mother, but in this respect, I carry the old man's torch.
Last night I hosted The Ha-Ha Hole, which is the little comedy open mike that I started here in Busan a year and half ago. The Hole, as we call it, has grown. What was originally three or four folks ranting into the microphone is now at least ten (last night we had 12, including me). It's a hell of a time, an excuse for a group of expats and locals to get together, drink some booze, and have a laugh. Before the show I thought about the old man. I heard his thunderous guffaw and felt his voice vibrate in my bones. When I got on the mike I acknowledged his birthday and even tried to crack a few jokes on his behalf. He wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
"What's the best thing about having dead parents?"
"I can put whatever I want on facebook - links to bukkake sites, status updates praising Hitler - it doesn't matter... It's not like I'm going to horrify anyone I REALLY care about."
Crass? Maybe. Tasteless? Sure. But I gotta try to wring some mirth out of this thing. The alternative is misery. Anyway, I miss the old man and the world misses his laugh, which is still unequaled by even a room full of folks at a comedy show. His was just too big and too deep.
Happy birthday, pops.
A photograph of my parents graces this desk, this center of my apartment where I spend much of my time and do all of my work. It was taken at my grandparents' old beach house on Hood Canal, back home in Washinton State. My old man is sitting down, with his hands in his lap. He wears a black and blue polo shirt and shaded glasses. The sky is is a mixture of blues and greys, early summer Northwest clouds, obscuring the Olympic mountains in the background. His natural grin stretches ear to ear; he is relaxed, vibrant, and absolutely happy. This comes as no surprise because he was alway happy at the Canal. It was a case of geography in the blood; the saltwater from that inlet coursed through his veins, and trace amounts of his ashes are suspended in its depths. My mother stands behind him ("Stand by your maaaaaan"), hands on his shoulders, wearing a red Nike jacket over a red and white country style shirt. Her hair is as grey as his and she smiles uneasily, reflecting a lifetime wariness of the camera. If my dad was the big ham, my mother was always more content to do her work from the wings. I've always thought I took after my mother, but in this respect, I carry the old man's torch.
Last night I hosted The Ha-Ha Hole, which is the little comedy open mike that I started here in Busan a year and half ago. The Hole, as we call it, has grown. What was originally three or four folks ranting into the microphone is now at least ten (last night we had 12, including me). It's a hell of a time, an excuse for a group of expats and locals to get together, drink some booze, and have a laugh. Before the show I thought about the old man. I heard his thunderous guffaw and felt his voice vibrate in my bones. When I got on the mike I acknowledged his birthday and even tried to crack a few jokes on his behalf. He wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
"What's the best thing about having dead parents?"
"I can put whatever I want on facebook - links to bukkake sites, status updates praising Hitler - it doesn't matter... It's not like I'm going to horrify anyone I REALLY care about."
Crass? Maybe. Tasteless? Sure. But I gotta try to wring some mirth out of this thing. The alternative is misery. Anyway, I miss the old man and the world misses his laugh, which is still unequaled by even a room full of folks at a comedy show. His was just too big and too deep.
Happy birthday, pops.
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